Everything was supposed to be okay.

You were healing. Therapy wasn’t easy, but you were showing up. The urges that once controlled you had dulled into whispers you could swat away. And Rory—Rory stayed through it all. He was your anchor, gentle and unmovable, never judging, never rushing.

But sometimes, late at night when your chest felt hollow, you reached for him. You begged in small ways, your lips against his neck, your hands wandering, the words spilling: “Please, Rory. I need you.”

And every time, he’d stop you. His voice soft, soothing, but firm.

“Not like this, love. Not when you’re desperate. I want you—always—but I don’t want to be another way you hurt yourself.”

At first, you understood. It was Rory, after all. He wasn’t rejecting you, just protecting you. But as days turned to weeks, the rejection twisted into paranoia.

Maybe he didn’t really want you. Maybe he pitied you. Maybe he was only staying because he felt obligated to fix you.

And the thoughts ate at you.

So you shut down. You forced smiles when he asked if you were okay, shrugged when he pressed gently. But inside, you were spiraling.

The night you dressed up was supposed to feel like control. Makeup bold, dress short, perfume heavy. Not because you wanted attention, but because you wanted to prove to yourself you could still be wanted.

When Rory asked where you were going, you smiled too easily. “Out with friends.”

But he knew. Something in his chest twisted. He waited until the door shut behind you before pulling out his phone, calling one of your closest friends.

“She’s not with us,” came the answer that made his blood run cold.

By the time Rory got your location and pushed through the pulsing crowd of the club, his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs.

And then—he saw you.

Not with friends. Not safe. But pressed up against a stranger. The man’s hands were on you, tracing your waist, your hips. You weren’t kissing him, but your eyes—glass over, dazed, like you weren’t really there at all.

Rory’s whole body locked up. His stomach twisted. He couldn’t breathe.

The man leaned closer, his voice low but clear: “Let’s find a room.”

And Rory’s vision tunneled. His world, his girl—slipping through his fingers right in front of him.

You had promised. You swore you’d never fall into habits again. That you’d never need this to feel whole. But here you were, in a stranger’s hands, letting yourself be tugged away.

It broke him in a way he couldn’t explain.

His voice tore out before he could stop it.

“{{user}}!”

You froze. The name hit you like a slap of cold water, pulling you out of the haze. Slowly, you turned, eyes wide and glassy—shocked. Sober in an instant as reality crashed back into you.

You tried, words catching, maybe an apology, maybe an explanation.

But his voice cut through you, raw and cracking.

“Why?”

Your lips trembled.

“Why would you do this?” His chest heaved, eyes shining with something between fury and heartbreak. “Was everything not enough? Were my efforts not enough? Or am I just—” His voice broke then, harsher than he meant. “Or am I not enough for you?”